


Business As Usual

by echoist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What passes for an ordinary morning.</p><p>(I don't know what this is, I haven't been in Sherlock fandom in quite some time, I just woke up with this in my head.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business As Usual

Sherlock stalked into the room, fingertips dancing along in midair, counting out a rhythm or an equation or possibly trying to pull facts from the ether. He threw himself down on the couch in his usual way, oblivious to John sat on the far end, reading the morning paper. Sherlock frowned slightly, settling his head against John's knee, still keeping a careful tally on his lips.

“Sherlock,” John mentioned, casually, without looking up from his paper.

“Hmm?” The counting continued, Sherlock's gaze fixed on a tear in the wallpaper.

“You do realise I'm sitting here?” John folded the paper with a snap, switching to the society feature.

“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered, a storm of numbers and facts to either side. “It's half seven, the paper's just come.”

John sighed, a small laugh riding its coattails. “Carry on, then.”

Sherlock's fist collided with the cushion's to John's left, shaking the entire piece. “It's rubbish, all of it.”

“What is?” John replied, taking a careful sip of his tea.

“Everything. Everyone. This whole miserable little world, every wretched organism above a unicellular level pissing away its potential.”

“Present company excluded?” John questioned, glancing around the paper.

Sherlock paused in his calculations to look up. “Of course, John,” he answered. “Why do you ask such stupid questions?”

John nodded and returned to the paper, setting his empty teacup down with a soft clatter. Sherlock frowned at the noise, and John wound his fingers gently through the snarled mess of his hair, stroking his brow.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, and was presently asleep.


End file.
